At First Glance
by JustlikeWater
Summary: Perhaps it isn't the wisest choice to snog one's prospective flat mate less than twenty four hours after meeting him, but John has never claimed to be the most reasonable man in London. [ASiP rewrite, with a few Johnlock twists]


**A/N: I've been working on this story for ages (it's one of the dozens of one shots I've been chipping away at all summer) and I'm so glad to finally post it! This is basically a Study in Pink rewrite, with several Johnlock twists and a ton of fluff. I had a blast writing this, so I hope you guys like it too! Make sure to let me know what you think in the comments :)**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

On Tuesday, in the middle of lunch with Harry, right as John's reaching for another complementary breadstick, she asks him, "Johnny, are you depressed?"

John abandons his mission and lets his hand go limp on the table, food forgotten. "Pardon?"

"Er, sorry," she winces, scratching the back of her head. "That was too blunt. Clara always did say I have a problem with being too straightforward. Well—the word she used was _tactless,_ but you know, tomato, to-mah-to…"

"Harry."

"Right. It's just, I'm worried about you, Johnny. I thought you'd be happy to be away from all that violence and death, but ever since you came back to London, you've just stayed in your flat all day and night doing god knows what by yourself."

"I've been wood carving," he interjects drily.

She ignores him. "You should be out there meeting new people and looking for a job."

"I have a job," he states dismissively. "Nine to five at the—"

"Yes, I _know_ ," she interrupts, sounding weary. "Nine to five as a receptionist at some hole-in-the-wall children's clinic. I meant you should look for a job you actually _like_."

"I like it well enough."

"Liar. Every time I've asked you about it in the past few months, you've just said 'its fine' and then your eyes glaze over as if you're listening to a bloody economics lecture. You hate it."

"Not true. It pays well enough and the hours suit me," John replies evenly. He doesn't bother mentioning that virtually _any_ hours would suit him, since his entire schedule is wide open until the end of time.

"Besides, if you find a job you actually enjoy, there's a higher chance you'll meet people you like. It's been a while since you've had a girlfriend and I think some companionship might do you good."

He absolutely does not feel like having this conversation right now. "Three continents Watson," he blandly reminds her, as if that phrase alone answers her question. "I didn't give myself that name, Hare."

Harry crosses her arms. "Sleeping with local slag on your tour doesn't count for shit, Johnny. You need someone you actually care about. You need love in your life, otherwise you'll turn into a sad old war vet who spends his days in his tiny, depressing flat, staring longingly at photographs and wishing for the good old days."

"Colorful."

"I'm serious."

John exhales loudly and averts his eyes. "So am I."

Harry reaches across the table and grabs his hand, and John valiantly does not tug his fingers out of her grip. "John," she says soberly. "You're lonely. I see it written all over your face. I'm just saying that meeting someone would help with that. You would be so much better off."

Anger bubbles in his chest like hot water. "Oh, really, Hare? That's what you think?" Now he does tug his hand back. "Last I checked, your marriage collapsed like a house of cards not too long ago—thanks to your own doing, by the way—so I don't think that puts you in any position to tell me what to do about my love life, seeing as you currently _don't have one."_

There's a long, frigid pause.

"I know I've made mistakes, John," she says coldly. "But so have you."

"That's my _point,_ Harry," he says tiredly. "Don't tell me how to live my life when you can't even handle your own, okay?"

She throws up her hands in resignation. "Fine. I'm done."

John waves down the waiter and shoves his plate aside. "Good."

* * *

"Is that you, John?" A voice calls from behind him one day in the park. "John Watson?"

John turns around to find the beaming, cherub-like face of his old mate, Mike Stamford.

"Mike!"

"Oi, I've missed that bloody mug of yours, Watson!" Mike says around a laugh, striding forward and pulling John into a friendly embrace. "What've you been up to?"

"Oh, you know. Getting shot at in Afghanistan, buying a shoddy flat with the breadcrumbs I earned, running a failing blog. The usual."

"Still dry as the bloody desert, I see," Mike chuckles. He bumps his shoulder good-naturedly against John's. "Got a girl in your life?"

John offers a tight smile. "No, haven't really had the chance to meet anyone. Life's been a bit dull lately, to be honest."

"You know, if that's the case, maybe what you need is a flat mate."

"A flat mate? How's that going to help?"

"Well, there's this bloke I think you'd like," Mike tells him as they make their way down the path. "He's a bit strange, but I reckon you two would get on."

John rolls his eyes. "Who'd want _me_ as a flat mate?"

Mike laughs and John turns to him with a confused look. "What?"

"Nothing." Mike smiles and shakes his head. "It's just, that's exactly what _he_ told me earlier today."

…

Mike's friend is a tall, lean man with dark curly hair, piercing grey eyes, and cheekbones so sharp John reckons he could use them as weapons if he wanted to.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" he questions casually, out of absolutely nowhere.

John blinks several times. "Pardon?"

"Did you serve in Afghanistan or Iraq?" the man repeats without tearing his gaze away from his microscope. His long, sinewy figure forms a perfect bow over the instrument and John can't help but stare. His pale eyes and cupids-bow lips alone are enough to inspire paintings and sculptures to last a lifetime, but when paired with those endless legs and narrow hips, he's absolutely _mesmerizing._ John is so busy drooling over the man's appearance that it doesn't occur to him to wonder how the hell he knows where John served.

John's face heats up when he realizes he's waited a beat too long to respond. He clears his throat. "Er, yeah. Afghanistan."

"Figures."

"Did Mike tell you?"

"No."

John tilts his head. "Then how did you—"

"Tan above the wrists, familiarity with St. Bart's, psychosomatic limp, wounded shoulder," he retorts without missing a beat, his focus still stubbornly residing in the contents under his microscope. John opens his mouth to say something, but the man beats him to it, adding, "And at risk of crossing some sort of social boundary, I will also point out that your sibling is an alcoholic and your relationship with her is quite strained."

Before John can decide whether to be offended or impressed, a skittish looking young woman with doe-like eyes enters the room and eagerly offers the man a cup of coffee. He accepts it and takes a sip, his eyes travelling unhurried over her face in deep scrutiny. She seems both excited and terrified by his undivided attention.

"What happened to the lipstick, Molly?" he questions at last.

Molly offers an awkward smile and tucks a wisp of hair behind her ear. "It, er, wasn't quite working for me."

"Well, that's a shame. Your mouth is far too small now."

Oblivious to the crushed look on her face, he places the cup down on the table and returns his attention to John, effectively dismissing her. "So. How do you feel about the violin?"

John watches Molly scurry out of the room and then looks back at the man with a blank expression. "What?"

He sighs impatiently and repeats himself, and this time John actually processes his question. "Oh. Violin. Well, I'm rubbish at instruments myself, but I enjoy listening to others play."

The man drums his fingers against the table. "Yes, but would you enjoy listening to violin at, say, two in the morning?"

John raises his eyebrows and laughs, mostly out of surprise. "Perhaps a bit less, but certainly not enough to put me off the instrument entirely."

"And science? What are your opinions on science?"

"Well, being that I'm a doctor, I hold it in a fairly high regard."

"Good," he nods. "Now, how would you feel if I did not speak for days on end? Sometimes I do that. For thinking purposes, you understand."

John cocks his head and starts to form a question, but the man cuts him off. "And before you ask why I'm telling you seemingly irrelevant information about myself, it is because I believe future flat mates should know quite a bit about each other. Now then, another habit of mine is leaving experiments lying about the house, though I can assure you, they are always—"

"Whoa, hold on a minute," John interrupts. "Who said anything about flat mates?" He glances at Mike, who's been standing in the corner filing paperwork throughout this entire exchange. "Did you tell him?"

"Nope," Mike answers with a knowing smile. "Not a word, John."

"I deduced it," he says dismissively, as if that single phrase clarifies anything. "Anyway, I must be off, but before I go, would you mind if I used your mobile?"

"Um. Sure, here."

As John watches the man's fingers fly over the keyboard, he finds himself in a bit of a daze. This entire conversation has been a whirlwind and now some gorgeous, ethereal genius is touching his poor, unworthy phone and making deductions about his poor, unworthy life. It feels as if he's stepped into some sort of odd fever dream.

The man hands John's mobile back to him and turns off the light of his microscope.

"I put my number in your phone," he announces nonchalantly, pulling his scarf around his neck. "If you'd like to see the flat and discuss our impending living situation, come to 221B Baker Street tomorrow at around noon. If you find it necessary to inform me of your inevitable arrival, I prefer texting to calling."

"Wait—"

"Right, yes, my name," he interrupts impatiently. "Sherlock Holmes. Consulting detective and graduate chemist." He tilts his head and winks. "The pleasure has been all mine, John. I will see you tomorrow."

"But—"

"No time for buts!" Sherlock calls over his shoulder, swinging the door open and stepping out into the hallway. "221B at noon—don't forget!"

…

 _I've thought it over for a while, and I've decided to look at the flat tomorrow._

 _ **Of course you have. I knew you would. SH**_

 _Smug, are you? I'm almost proud enough to change my mind, just to prove you wrong._

 _ **Almost, but not quite. SH**_

 _Just so you know, I don't make a habit of going to random flats with random blokes. Especially not ones I've only known for twenty minutes._

 _ **Please. Twenty minutes is more than enough time to get to know a person. I had you figured out in under five. SH**_

 _Yes, yes, I know, but you're clearly a certified genius._

 _ **Certified? No. Genius? Yes. SH**_

 _Hm. You should add 'humble' to the list._

 _I'm kidding, by the way. :-P_

 _ **Must you use emoticons? SH**_

 _Of course. :-D_

 _ **If you were anyone else, I would delete your number for this reason alone. SH**_

 _What makes me special, then?_

 _ **You simply are. SH**_

 _Well, in what ways? Whatever I'm doing right, I would like to keep doing it._

 _ **I don't quite know, actually. I just know that you are…different. SH**_

 _In a good way, I assume?_

 _ **Yes. Definitely in a good way. SH**_

 _You know, this is a pretty nice conversation. I'm enjoying it._

 _ **That's only because I complimented you. SH**_

 _So, you confirm that it was a compliment, then?_

 _ **I suppose it was. SH**_

 _:-D_

 _ **Good god. I will see you tomorrow, John. In the meantime, do try to find a way to express yourself without misusing letters and punctuation. SH**_

 _Bye :-)_

…

"I feel strange for not officially introducing myself, yesterday," John says, the moment they step onto the curb of Baker Street. "I'm John Watson."

"Yes, I know," Sherlock says, but shakes his hand anyway. "I've already introduced myself, but I suppose for propriety's sake I'll do it again. I am Sherlock Holmes."

John smiles. "Yes, Consulting Detective and graduate chemist."

"Indeed. Now, shall we go inside? I'd like to introduce you to Mrs. Hudson. She's a splendid woman and a very accommodating landlady."

John bounds up the steps after Sherlock, wishing his stupid cane wasn't in the way. "You know her well?"

"Oh, yes. I helped her several years ago when her husband was being charged with first degree murder."

"Ah, you stopped him from being executed?"

"Oh, no, I ensured it." Blind to the surprised look on John's face, he turns and raps his knuckles against the door, calling, "Mrs. Hudson! John is here!"

"You told her about me?"

Sherlock glances back at him. "Yes, I—Mrs. Hudson!"

The old woman standing in the threshold looks matronly and kind, and John immediately takes a liking to her. "Sherlock," she beams. "So good to see you, dear!" She envelops him in a quick embrace and then pulls away to get a look at John. "Ah, and you must be the prospective flat mate!"

"Yes," John smiles, "I'm John Watson. Pleasure to meet you."

She takes John's hand and grins back. "Martha Hudson. Please, do come inside, Sherlock has been wearing tracks in my carpet all day long waiting for you to arrive. He's been dying for you to see the place."

"I am not _dying_ for him to see it," Sherlock mumbles, like a young boy embarrassed by his mother. "I am merely interested in finding out if John intends to live here."

Mrs. Hudson just laughs. "Oh, ignore him, dear. He refuses to acknowledge the moments when he isn't perfectly composed."

John glances at Sherlock and feels a strange (and perhaps unwarranted) jolt of fondness shoot through him. There is something so inexplicably endearing about the thought of someone as intelligent and striking as Sherlock Holmes feeling such simple, childlike excitement. Especially over someone as unspectacular as _John._

…

221B is cozy and crowded and positively _bursting_ with strange knickknacks and clutter, and John falls in love with it the moment he steps inside. The warm, pleasantly busy flat is infinitely better than the depressing box he's currently living in.

"There's a second bedroom upstairs, if you'll be needing it," Mrs. Hudson offers.

 _She thinks we're a couple?_ John briefly wonders if his ogling has truly been that obvious. "Oh, no, we're not, um," he glances at Sherlock, waiting for him to join in, but the man remains blank-faced and silent. John wonders if he even understood the insinuation. "We're not together," John finishes. "So, yes, that second room will definitely be needed."

"Oh, don't worry, dear, there's all kinds around here," Mrs. Hudson says reassuringly. Dropping her voice to a stage whisper, she adds, "And just so you know, Mrs. Turner has married ones next door!"

John blinks rapidly. "Um, no, Mrs. Hudson, we're _really_ not—"

"Anyway, dear," Mrs. Hudson interrupts cheerfully, "I should be off. I'll let Sherlock show you around the flat, I'm sure he'll do a fine job. Pleasure to meet you!"

John watches her depart with his mouth fishlike and gaping. He turns to Sherlock. "She thought that we—"

"Would you like a tour?" Sherlock cuts in, nearly bouncing on his heels with excitement.

John genuinely _would_ like to see the flat, so he decides to let the misconception about him and Sherlock slide for now. Besides, it isn't as if it's terribly insulting to be presumed the partner of someone like Sherlock Holmes.

"Lead the way."

…

"So, what do you think?" Sherlock asks twenty minutes. His eyes are bright and eager, but his features are carefully schooled into a look of indifference. Again, John finds himself charmed by the lighthearted boyishness hiding beneath Sherlock's cool, seemingly austere surface.

"I like it," John answers honestly. "Obviously I'll have a better idea of what it looks like once the previous owner takes their things, but even right now, I think it looks lovely."

"Oh," Sherlock says, looking suddenly sheepish. "Well, I took the liberty of moving my things in already, so this is all mine, but, um, I'm sure I could clean up a bit." Half-heartedly, Sherlock attempts to organize things by scooping a stack of files off the table and pushing aside a few boxes. Unsurprisingly, it doesn't make much of a difference. He ducks his head. "Apologies, John."

"No, no, it's fine, I think I like the mess, actually. It's eccentric." With his cane, John points at the cow skull wearing headphones. "Like that, for example. You don't see that every day."

Apparently reassured, Sherlock visibly relaxes and looks to the cow skull with a proud smile. "Yes, I won that in a poker match once. Six thugs, an authentic cow skull, and a game-winning hand that would've made Tom Dwan balk. It's an interesting story, I'm sure I'll find the time to tell you someday."

Warmth unfurls in John's chest at the word 'someday' because it implies that Sherlock intends to know him for a long time.

"So, John, you do like it?" Sherlock confirms after a beat of silence.

"It feels like…like," John trails off, searching for the right word.

"Home?" Sherlock ventures.

John blinks, surprised by how perfectly that word fits. "Yes, that's exactly it. You feel the same?"

Sherlock walks over to the mantle and brushes nonexistent dust from the crown of the skull sitting there. "I do. It is quite rare that I find myself so violently drawn to something in such a short amount of time, but I suppose this is the exception." He glances at John almost sheepishly, then looks away. He clears his throat. "Now then, would you like to continue this discussion over lunch? There's a lovely Italian place right downstairs."

…

John isn't quite sure why he says it, but the moment that Angelo—the loud Italian owner with rosy cheeks and an apparent devotion to Sherlock—implies that he and Sherlock are dating, John denies it. "No, we're not together," he says firmly. "This isn't a date."

Instead of retracting his comment about what a lovely couple they make, Angelo just bursts out laughing and slaps John heartily on the shoulder. "Oh, that's a good one, Mr. Watson. I tell you what, I'll be right back with a candle for the table. It sets the mood!"

"Really, that won't be—" John watches the man disappears into the depths of the kitchen and out of ear shot "—necessary," he finishes lamely. He sighs and looks back at Sherlock. "Well, that was—"

"To be expected," Sherlock finishes briskly, without inflection. He picks up his menu and begins reading through it, even though on the way here he claimed he knew every single item backwards and forwards.

"To be expected?" John repeats. "What makes you say that?"

"Your behavior is very—gentlemanly," Sherlock says after a moment. He clears his throat and raises his menu a bit higher, as if to hide himself. "You pulled out my chair and chose to sit directly to my right rather than across from me. You also ordered my drink for me. All of those things are quite…date-like."

"Oh." Sherlock does have a point. John scratches the back of his head sheepishly. "Um, sorry, I didn't intend for anything to come across in any, er, particular way."

"What are you ordering?"

Grateful for the change of subject, John glances down and voices the first thing his eyes land on. "Baked Ziti with spinach and veal."

"Excellent choice," Sherlock nods.

"You?"

"Oh, I don't eat." Sherlock shrugs. "Though I suppose I might order a small portion of tiramisu." After a beat, he scrunches up his nose in distaste. "I find the subject of my eating habits quite boring, let's talk about something else."

"Alright," John concedes. "What would you like to talk about?"

"Science. What are your thoughts on the subject? Other than as a doctor, of course."

"Well, I got great marks in my biology classes, if that's what you mean," John starts. "I enjoyed my fair share of chemistry experiments in secondary school and I've always found the subject as a whole to be quite intriguing. And, being that I'm a certified army doctor, I like to think I know my way around the subject."

"Hm. Any hobbies?"

John leans back and thinks about it for a moment, his fingers absently drumming against the table. "Yes," he says after a while, "Literature has always held some allure and I enjoy writing narratives and entries on my blog."

"Interesting," Sherlock muses. Most people would use that response as a way to politely express disinterest, but John suspects Sherlock is truly invested in what he's saying. Sherlock Holmes does not strike him as the kind of man who says things he does not mean. "I have a blog as well, care to see it?"

John sits up straighter in his chair. "Yeah, I'd love to! I'll pull it up on my mobile right now, what's the site called?"

With a look of pride, Sherlock answers, "The Science of Deduction." In response to John's alarmed expression upon locating the site, Sherlock hastily adds, "Yes, yes, the home page is currently a photograph of a disembodied head, but don't let that dissuade you, otherwise you'll miss out on the really good bits."

John glances up from his screen and raises a brow. "You mean the gore lessens as the pages go on?"

Sherlock scoffs. "Oh no, quite the opposite. I only meant you shouldn't turn away just yet because you'll miss the disembodied hand on page three."

As strange and perhaps disturbing as some of this man's quirks are, John can't help but feel totally and hopelessly captivated by him. "This is the site for your detective work, correct?"

"Yes. I have another blog that catalogues different types of tobacco ash, but it isn't nearly as popular. Regretfully, even _The_ _Science of Deduction_ does not earn much attention, though I'm sure that's just because it isn't as tastelessly flashy and trite as most blogs."

"Do I detect a hint of bitterness?" John teases.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "I would much rather have a quiet, unpopular blog than an obnoxious, neon-colored web page dissecting the lives of celebrities, or some rubbish like that."

While Sherlock rants, John continues scrolling through the site, his eyes moving unhurriedly from case to case. "You know, when you document these cases, you make them sound so straightforward and concise. Are they actually like that in real life?"

"Oh, certainly not. Take, for example, the case in which a woman's supposedly 'dead' husband was siphoning money from her bank account. I believe it's on page six. That case took me nearly a week to solve, and I had to break into multiple houses and banks to find the information I needed. I also had to chase down a pair of twin brothers who were remarkably fast and quite skilled at the art of fence-climbing, but it was worth it once the true culprit was found and Mrs. Horowitz's money was returned safely to her account."

John's heart rate picks up just at the mere mention of adventure. "Really? Then why on earth didn't you put that on here? All it says is the woman's name, the date, and the status of the case."

"Yes," Sherlock agrees. "Rebecca Horowitz: 9/5/13: thief convicted, monetary assets returned. What more is there to say?"

"Where is the drama, the description, the suspense? What you just offhandedly described in a few sentences could easily be constructed into an incredible short story! That would definitely get your website more attention."

"And where would I find someone to write such things? _I_ certainly have no intention of embellishing my work for the sake of entertainment."

"I could do it," John blurts out. "Quite easily, actually. Like I said, I love writing and your work seems incredibly exciting."

Sherlock looks surprised. "You'd be willing to do something like that?"

"Yes," John replies readily. "I definitely would."

Something warm and pleasantly surprised shines through Sherlock's eyes, but right as he is about to response, their food arrives.

"Enjoy!" Angelo says, placing their plates on the table. "Ah, and look here, I brought another candle!"

…

The food is delicious and the conversation is scintillating, but John can't seem to stop _staring_ at Sherlock, and that is making it very difficult to listen to what he's saying. At the moment, Sherlock is talking about saliva molecules (or something) and John's eyes keep wandering back to that gorgeous mouth of his. Sherlock's top lip is all high peaks and haughtiness, but his bottom lip is lush and full, just begging to be tugged and nipped at. For a while, John happily loses himself in a daydream.

"You're staring," Sherlock points out matter-of-factly, in the middle of his story.

John, jarred out of his lovely fantasy, immediately goes pink. "Er, yes," he admits, when no other excuse pops into his head.

"I'd like to know _why_."

This throws John off guard. "What do you mean why?"

Sherlock huffs impatiently and puts down his fork. "Is there something on my face?"

 _Yes, your gorgeous features._

"No."

"Then why?"

"Because it's a bit difficult _not_ to!" John blurts out helplessly.

Only after he's said it does John realize how that phrase could be taken as an insult rather than the compliment he intended it to be. However, Sherlock doesn't seem to mind; he merely looks curious. "Is my face really that odd?"

This statement surprises the truth out of John. "Odd? If by odd you mean beautiful or striking, then yeah, sure, you're very odd."

"You're flirting with me," Sherlock says suddenly, as if it's just dawned on him.

John assesses the situation and realizes that, despite his complete lack of agenda at the start of the conversation, he is indeed chatting up Sherlock Holmes. "Huh. I suppose I am."

"Hm." Sherlock's gaze sweeps critically over John, his eyes narrowed in contemplation. John forces himself not to balk under the other man's scrutiny. "I find you very attractive," Sherlock declares at last. His eyes rest on John's mouth. " _Very."_

John blinks. "Is that so?"

"Indeed. This is…strange," Sherlock muses under his breath. "I don't typically find myself compelled to partake in physical and/or sexual activities with another person."

" _Physical and/or sexual activities?"_ John can't help the snort that escapes him. "Christ, you might as well call it copulation while you're at it."

Sherlock shrugs. "That's what it is, isn't it?"

"I guess but—wait a minute, I never said anything about _copulating._ Bit presumptuous of you to jump there, don't you think?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Oh, please, John. Your pupils have been dilated like saucers for the past ten minutes and I can clearly see from the burgeoning tent in your jeans that you're _obviously_ —"

"Oi! So you've been checking me out too, then, hm?"

Sherlock scoffs. "I wasn't checking you out, John. I was observing."

"Observing my crotch."

A rather attractive blush works its way up the detective's cheekbones. Haughtily, as if there is any dignity in what he's saying, Sherlock replies, " _Yes."_

John pushes his plate aside and leans a bit closer. "I can't say I mind terribly."

Sherlock glances at him from the corner of his eye. "Really?"

John's eyes fall to Sherlock's slightly parted mouth as if pulled there by magnetic force. "Do you hear me complaining?"

"You're staring at my mouth," Sherlock distractedly mumbles, his own gaze locked on John's.

"Mmhm."

"Your tongue is…" Sherlock trails off as he watches John lick his lips again. "Um."

"I'm going to kiss you now," John announces, "and if you're going to stop me, I suggest you do it now."

Instead of stopping him, however, Sherlock grabs John by his lapels and tugs him forward, crushing their mouths together almost painfully. John considers pulling back and making a quick joke about colliding teeth being the least enjoyable way to snog, but then Sherlock tilts his head to the right and sucks on John's bottom lip, and any notion of joke-telling is gone in an instant.

"Mm," Sherlock groans several minutes later, pressing himself even closer against John. "I wish there wasn't a table between us."

It's then that John realizes that Sherlock is practically sitting in his lap, and that they have now successfully garnered the attention of at least half the restaurant's patrons.

Clearing his throat, John pulls back. "Hey, maybe we should take this elsewhere? At the rate we're going, Angelo's lunch crowd is about to get a free show."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Sod them, this is a private table, they may look away if they wish. If you're worried that Angelo will kick us out, he won't. He and I are quite close."

"Yes, I know, you got him off a murder charge, but are you sure he's okay with us snogging in the back of his restaurant like teenagers?"

Sherlock huffs impatiently. "Oh, I don't know, John, shall we pen him a letter and find out?"

"Sherlock, I'm just trying to be reasonable here."

"Listen to me, John," Sherlock says sternly. "I've wanted to kiss you since yesterday and every second that we are not doing so is a tedious waste of time. I do _not_ like wasting time. So, would you like to continue snogging, yes or no?"

"Yes, obviously, but—"

"Yes or no."

John sighs. " _Yes."_

"Good," Sherlock says, returning his hands to their place in John's hair. "Now come here."

…

At some point even Angelo has to draw the line on the PDA, so once it starts to look like articles of clothing are about to be shed, he rushes over and cheerfully suggests that they get a cab and head back to the flat.

"Taxi!" John cries from the pavement, wavering fruitlessly as the endless stream of cars. "Buggering hell, Sherlock, I've been at this for ten minutes and nothing has—"

"Allow me," Sherlock says smoothly, stepping to the curb. He raises one gloved hand, hardly above shoulder level, and in less than sixty seconds, a cab pulls to a stop in front of them.

John's mouth falls open. "How in the hell…?"

"Come on," Sherlock insists, tugging him inside. Once they're both seated, he sheds his gloves and tells the cabbie, "221B Baker Street."

John stares at Sherlock's profile, drinking in the rosiness of his lips and the pale pink blush sitting high on his cheekbones. A single obsidian curl springs out from the rest of his mop and hangs before his forehead, and it takes all of John's willpower not to fondly brush it away.

"John?"

John tears his eyes away from the artful black forest of Sherlock's hair. "Yes?"

"Was it—good?"

"Was what good?

"The snogging. Back at Angelo's."

It's actually quite stunning how much reassurance this man needs, considering he's easily the most brilliant, beautiful human being John has ever had the pleasure of meeting. "Christ, Sherlock, yes, it was the best bloody snogging session I've ever had,"

"Really?"

"Yes, hands down the _best._ How was it for you?"

Sherlock's pale eyes light up. "Incredible. Indescribable. Utterly exhilarating. To be fair, it was the only snogging session I've ever had, but still, it—"

"Really?" John interrupts, shocked.

Sherlock gives him a sardonic look. "No, John, I just said it because I like the sound of my own voice."

Struck once again with begrudging fondness, John presses a loud, smacking kiss against Sherlock's frowning forehead. "You do like the sound of your own voice, you git." His lips trail down to Sherlock's nose, then his cheekbone, before settling on the high peaks of his upper lip. "But to be fair, I rather like it, too."

"Do you?"

"Mmhm," John confirms, pressing another peck to Sherlock's slightly open mouth. "And I like you very much too."

Sherlock pulls back and stares at him. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why do you like me?" It doesn't come out sounding terribly insecure or earnest, it simply sounds inquisitive, as if Sherlock truly cannot comprehend why someone might enjoy his presence.

"I like you because you're witty and brilliant and absolutely beautiful," John says without missing a beat. "You're incredible. The real question is, why do _you_ like _me_?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes and leans his forehead against John's. "Don't ask stupid questions, John."

"Hey, you asked first," John points out.

"Fine. You're intelligent, interesting, patient, attractive, _and_ you tolerate me. Of course I like you. There is virtually nothing else I can think of that would make you more appealing than you already are."

"Good," John murmurs, pressing a lingering kiss to Sherlock's lips. "Glad we have that sorted." Almost lazily, he drags his hands through Sherlock's unruly curls and angles their mouths together once more.

Instead of responding passionately and wildly like John expects, Sherlock's kisses grow soft and chaste. His lashes flutter against the white curve of his cheek and his fingers tighten in John's sweater. "I hate to pose yet another question, but what does this mean, John? I know very little about the world of 'relationships'."

"Well, this is definitely the quickest I've ever had to have the 'talk' with someone."

"What's the 'talk'?"

"It's basically when a couple decides what they are in more definite terms. Usually it comes after a few months of dating."

"Then let's do that," Sherlock decides, his voice full of resolution. "We will date first and then have the 'talk'. For now we can simply be…"

"John and Sherlock?" John suggests.

"Yes. I like that."

The cab stops and John peers out the window at the great, towering figure of 221B. The building shines in the late afternoon sun like a beacon. Something warm and brilliant unfurls in John's chest at the sight.

"We're home, Sherlock."

"Home?" Sherlock echoes. Tentatively (hopefully), he asks, "Does that mean you're moving in?"

John takes Sherlock's hand and pushes open the door, the watery light from outside settling over them like a sheet. John shields his eyes against the sun and looks to Sherlock with a smile. "You can tell Mrs. Hudson we won't be needing that second room."

* * *

"You look good, Johnny," Harry comments, taking a bite of Cesar salad. She pushes the basket of breadsticks in John's direction so he doesn't have to reach, then grabs another napkin from the pile to her right. "You remember what I told you the last time we came here, don't you?"

John accepts the basket and hands her the water pitcher in return. "Hell, that was almost a year and a half ago, wasn't it?"

"A year and seven months, actually," Harry corrects. "Do you remember what I said?"

"Some nonsense about me needing to get my life together, right?"

" _No_ ," she says, wagging her finger. "I gave you wise, big sisterly advice about finding someone that would make you happy. I told you that you needed someone in your life that would make the world bright again. Someone you cared about."

John holds up his left hand and shows off the handsome silver band adorning his ring finger. Even though it's still so new, the familiar weight of it makes John feel as if he's always been destined to wear it. "Well, I think I've found that someone, wouldn't you say?"

"I would. My point," she continues, "is that I was _right_."

"Christ, you're starting to sound like him now," John complains. "I knew I never should have introduced the two of you. There's far too much dry wit and smugness in this family as is."

Harry smirks and spears another lettuce leaf. "How _is_ Sherlock by the way? Still freaking out about all that wedding planning?"

John groans. " _Yes_. He's insisted on folding every single guest's napkin himself ever since he learned how to make origami swans on YouTube last week. Plus, he refuses to invite Phillip Anderson from the Yard, even though the poor sod has been literally _showering_ us with engagement gifts for weeks. He even got us a sodding _toaster_ the other day."

Harry raises her eyebrows. "Wow, a toaster? Why?"

"No idea. When I proposed to Sherlock on that case last month, Anderson saw the whole thing and started crying and spouting all these things about how lovely we were together and how sorry he was for being a prat, because deep down he'd always been rooting for us." John sighs. "Either way, Sherlock and I keep getting a new appliance every time we check the mail, and I'm starting to worry that if we don't send out his invitation soon, we're going to wake up one morning and find that he's purchased us a new flat building."

Harry snorts. "Well, feel free to send any unwanted gifts my way. Gracie and I are still looking for some stuff to fill our new flat."

"That's right, you two just moved in together!" John says, remembering all those nights spent listening to Harry gush on and on about her new girlfriend over the phone, while Sherlock loomed impatiently over his shoulder, demanding that John come back to bed. "How have things been?"

"Incredible," Harry sighs. "She's been so good for me, Johnny. I haven't touched a drop in over a year."

John smiles and squeezes Harry's hand. "That's amazing, Hare. I'm so happy for you."

She returns the smile and taps her nail against the silver ring on his finger. "What about you, Johnny? Would you say you've finally found happiness?"

John's mobile buzzes in his pocket and he frees his hand from Harry's to check it.

 ** _John I don't care what you're doing right now, I need you to drop everything and join me at the Bakery. Apparently they're out of the frosting we ordered and now some buffoon is trying to convince me that we should use buttercream instead. Can you believe that? BUTTERCREAM on our WEDDING CAKE. Come immediately, I may need you to scare a few people for me. SH_**

John looks back up at his sister and grins. "Yeah, I would say so."

* * *

 **A/N: Thanks for reading, lovelies! Your feedback is food for my writer soul, so please let me know what you think!**


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